


Small Potatoes

by scullywolf



Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [93]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Gen, MSR, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullywolf/pseuds/scullywolf





	Small Potatoes

Later that night, after Van Blundht had been arrested and charged and processed, Scully walked back into her apartment and was immediately confronted yet again with the evidence of everything that had happened -- and had almost happened -- and she groaned.

_What. In the hell. Was I thinking?_

Her buzz had long since retreated, leaving only a mortifying clarity in its wake. The wine glasses and empty bottle sat on the coffee table, mocking her, and she averted her eyes as she walked past them on the way to her bedroom. She closed the bedroom door and leaned her back against it, sliding slowly down until she was sitting on the floor with her forehead against her knees and her eyes closed.

She hadn’t said ten words to Mulder all night, had barely been able to look at him. How could she, after the scene he’d burst in on?

The near-kiss wasn’t even the worst part. The fact that she’d been so blinded by her refusal to believe Mulder’s theory about Van Blundht’s abilities that she hadn’t recognized that the man she’d spent the last day with _wasn’t even her partner at all_ … it was almost unforgivable. Looking back over the previous 24 hours, there had been more than enough opportunities for her to put the pieces together, if only she hadn’t dismissed the idea so thoroughly. 

And then, later, it wasn’t so much about a refusal to believe as it was about the exact opposite, only it was something else entirely that she wanted to believe so badly.

_I am such an idiot._

At least she had just over 48 hours until she had to face Mulder again. Even that didn’t seem like enough, but it was better than having to be back in the office the very next morning. She had two days to figure out how the hell to explain things to him. Hopefully in the process she would figure out how to explain them to herself as well.

The thing was, she didn’t have a straightforward answer as to why she had been willing to let him kiss her, why she would have gone through with it if not for the interruption by her actual partner. It wasn’t as simple as “I was drunk,” nor was it indicative of some deeper pining on her part. It was the worst kind of cliche, but one thing truly _had_ led to another. 

It had been _nice_ , just sitting and talking with him, having the sort of heart-to-heart that she hadn’t had with anyone in years. (So much nicer than the messy and somewhat regrettable confessions made to a near-stranger in a crummy bar a month or so back. Yet another alcohol fueled exchange she would just as soon forget.) And yes, it had been strange and different and completely unexpected, but it also hadn’t been, she didn’t think, entirely outside the realm of possibility. It was like one of their late-night stakeout conversations, amplified. 

It was, she dared to suppose, maybe even how her birthday evening might have gone, if Sharon Grafia hadn’t sought them out.

But then there had been that look, a look she’d never expected to see directed at her from a man whose tastes ran more toward brunette bombshells and bikini models. As stupid as it was for partners to become romantically involved, and logically she knew that it was phenomenally stupid, in that moment, in her inebriated state, she could not have cared less. Now, after the fact, of course she recognized the profound lack of judgment she’d displayed, the sheer idiocy of letting herself be swept up by the hope that he might actually find her attractive. And to what end? What good would have come of any of that?

She realized with chagrin that her own body attempted to answer that very question in the form of an involuntary sensation of warmth low in the pit of her stomach, an autonomic response to the mere memory of that look on his face. It was, she supposed, the very definition of the human condition, rational thought hijacked by hormones and other stimuli. It didn’t excuse her actions, but at least it did make them a little easier to understand, which was more than she could say for her actions in the hours leading up to the moment when he’d looked at her that way. 

Because at its core, there was still the truth that she couldn’t explain or wish away: all that time, it hadn’t even been Mulder, and she hadn’t noticed. 


End file.
